


amélie has houseguests and they’re both terrible at being normal humans

by hanktalkin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Home Improvement, Humor, Interior Decorating, Mansion Fic, Multi, Sneaking Out, Team Talon (Overwatch), Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: The thing Widowmaker wants most is to spend ONE weekend at her estate, alone and able to sort through her thoughts. Maybe even relax, sleep in. That sort of thing.So of course her wanting those things was practically begging fate to fuck with her.For instance, it could begin with her finding Reaper chilling in her living room.





	amélie has houseguests and they’re both terrible at being normal humans

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from writing Arena because they released Château Guillard and my baby does not deserve to be alone and sad

“What.”

The flat statement is all that she could manage. The looming, masked man looked up from the _Home & Gardens_ magazine she’d left scattered on the cheap chestnut coffee table. He tossed it back in the pile.

“Hello Widowmaker. Doing anything this weekend?”

She sputtered for a good fifteen seconds. They’d found her house. _They’d found her **fucking** house and she hadn’t even been here for a day_. One small break from her initial unpacking to go take a leak and she’d come back to find one of Talon’s top members sitting in her library, relaxing on the sagging, Loriot’s sofa she’s picked up for €23.99.

Except instead of being scared of the man sitting before her and what he might mean, Widowmaker was instead one hundred percent totally and utterly _miffed_.

“Yes I’m doing something this weekend and it involves _not having you in my house_.” She stamped her foot on the ground, the rag she’d brought back with her twisted in to a ball.

“Wow,” Reaper said, tilting his head at her childlike behavior. “Rude.”

In the Talon hierarchy, it was not the best idea to yell at your boss, especially when unruly and defiant employees tended never to be heard from again. But Amélie had stopped thinking of Reaper as her “boss” long ago, and not even for very long. It’s hard to take orders from someone who joins half a decade after you. In all actuality, their relationship was more like a partnership. Although an exceedingly complicated one after…certain evenings

“It’s also rude to break in to people’s homes,” she frowned.

“Okay, well ‘home’ is a bit of a stretch.” Reaper got off the couch and walked over to her. “I mean you bought this place, what? Four, five months ago?”

“ _Six_.”

“And only now are you moving in,” Reaper finished. “Not really your ‘home’. This is more like your…” He looked around the vaulted living room, up to the dusty chandelier accented by plentiful natural light. Then he swiveled around more to catch sheets placed over old furniture and buckets of paint set against the wall. “Remodeling project?”

Widowmaker pouted because, damn him, he wasn’t wrong. The house that had belonged to her family was meant to be an escape, her one hideaway from Talon where she could relax, sip wine on the balcony, and put her hands to something unfamiliar.

“How did you know all of that?” she asked in annoyance. “I was careful to make sure Talon didn’t find the records of the purchase.”

“They didn’t,” Reaper replied. “Sombra did. It was her idea to come in and check on you. Make sure weren’t going to turn this place in to your own personal Beauty and the Beast mansion.”

“ _Sombra’s_ coming?” Widow said in despair.

“Actually, she’s been here all along.”

Widow’s mouth was a perfect ‘O’ when Sombra dropped out of stealth and began examining a 19th-century impressionist painting that was leaned against the wall. “Hey there _amiga_. Nice place you got here. I mean, fixer-upper, but the crown molding in the bathrooms is in _very_ good taste.”

Widow dropped in to a canvas-covered armchair with a quiet, “ _merde_.”

Sombra. The “complication” that had started it all. It was because of her that there was this…thing between them in the first place, by Sombra’s way of pushing situations to their logical extremes.

“Dare I ask why you are both here?” Widowmaker asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“We’re worried about you, _mi pequeña araña_ ,” Sombra said, still admiring the painting. “Buy a house, disappear without a word, what are we going to think?”

Looking at them through half-lidded eyes, Widow sighed. “Worried about me. Sure. Do I need to be concerned about Talon swooping in and declaring my house a frivolous luxury that an assassin is better without?”

“The Talon Department of Swooping is officially closed on the weekends,” Reaper said, completely unreadable.

Widow raised an eyebrow at Sombra. The hacker looked over her shoulder and shrugged. “What he said. Your secret’s safe with us, _amiga_.”

“But you’re not leaving,” Widow said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Reaper and Sombra said anyway.

“ _Merde_ ,” Widow said again.

* * *

The château breathed easily in the river wind as it rolled up from both sides. The view from the dining room was beautiful, bay windows spilling into a gentle autumn scene. Some curtains would be nice here, just enough to block the sunset over an early dinner. Lavender. Yes, lavender.

Widowmaker moved away from the window and cracked open a can of paint. It was dusted rose, her favorite. It would complement the curtains, and would do much better than the current grimy white that was half a century out of fashion.

As she stirred, she glanced up to catch sight of Reaper. “What are you staring at?”

He shrugged, slouched back in one of the dining chairs he’d pulled against the wall. In a clear motion of I-am-checking-you-out, his head followed her up and down her form. “The paint splattered, over ambitious, Martha Stewart impersonator look is good on you.”

“I do not know to take that as a compliment or not,” she said wryly. Reaper didn’t respond. He didn’t need to move to look at her; he could’ve just as easily studied her with his ever-hidden eyes. He’d wanted her to _know_ he was checking her out.

She wondered what the hell interested him. Her shirt was old, purchased with most of the other temporary furniture she’d bought. She’d rolled the sleeves up just so, and her hair back in its high ponytail. Nothing particularly stunning.

Pouring into the paint tray, Widowmaker let him fade from her mind. Her unwanted, though maybe-well-intentioned, houseguest might not have been there at all, had his voice not cut through the soft squelching of the paint roller. “You sure you want all this junk?”

When she looked up, now to see him out of his chair and lifting the sheet off a painting, she snapped. Moving like a hunter on her prey, she was on him in an instant, pinning the offending hand against the wall.

“Do _not_ mess with my things,” she demanded, with real anger this time. “This place is ancient, and I will not have you or her damaging anything until I have sorted through it all. Who knows what you could ruin with your stupid nosiness?”

The emotionless mask was still able to register a look of surprise.

She glared at him, her face inches from his. Perhaps it was an overreaction, but her annoyance at the both of them was bound to spill over at some point. Now, her chest heaved with the sudden rush of energy, and she stared unflinchingly into the mask.

In all honesty, Reaper could get his wrist free. He still held all his super soldier strength, even without the added power of his condition. But he didn’t. He just stared back at her, smoke rippling from the edge of his mask like a fish’s gills. It occurred to her they were in an almost kiss, her lips hovering over the smooth metal of his mask. With every breath, a little of the smoke went through her nose and into her lungs. It wasn’t unpleasant—the smoke was smooth like cooking steam—but the knowledge that she was literally inhaling Reaper’s body was still enough to make the sensation unnerving.

It was nothing she couldn’t handle. It was only when Reaper was hurt, slowly hauling himself though a rough extraction or failed mission, that it brought her genuine pain. Then the smoke was appalling, smelling of burned flesh as his body healed itself.

Widowmaker finally leaned away, wisps of black smoke falling from her nostril. The kiss remained unsung between them.

“If you really must fiddle with something, you could help me paint,” she said at last.

With that, she went to her roller, showing Reaper her back. She would need to hear him speak to know what he was thinking, whether his face held indifference or disappointment. Or maybe even that smirk that was more common than people thought.

“Sure. Whatever you say Extreme Home Makeover.”

There was light in his voice. Widowmaker didn’t smile, but her frown did lesson as she heard him grab a brush.

* * *

“Oooo, you’ve been holding out on us _mi pequeña araña._ ”

Widow rolled her eyes, not paying Sombra mind as she carried a box out of the library. It stunk of water-damaged books, a sad sight despite Widowmaker’s attempts at detachment. She dropped it near the back door with a huff.

Sombra leaned against the doorframe. “I mean that bed is new, and nice,” she continued, stressing the word _nice_ just so. She trailed a finger down Widow’s arm, her natural fingernails short and painted a soft pink. “A double, I think? How about we get away from renovating for a bit, go upstairs, and make it a tipple,” she said with a wink.

Widow idly brushed her hand away. “I have work to do _chérie_.”

Sombra moved around her, instead pinching her shoulders in a way that made Widow hum despite herself. “Too time consuming? How about just a queen size then? I promise I won’t tell Gabe…” Sombra purred into Widow’s ear.

Widow melted momentarily into the deft fingers, forgetting her annoyance for so long she had to shake herself awake and scold the hacker. “A, there’s no such thing as a triple bed. B, it’s a California king, not a double. And C, it is _new_ , and it’s one of the few pieces I’ve brought I intend to keep. So it will not be going through anything that it cannot take while I have a say in it.”

“I can be an extremely gentle lover,” Sombra promised.

“Every time someone so much as fingers you, you holler like you’re being murdered.”

“So?” Sombra pouted. “Screaming never hurt a bed.”

Widowmaker walked back to the library to sort through more books. Sombra followed her, sneaking up behind and tucking her chin over Widow’s shoulder.

“Is that a no then?”

“ _Oui_.”

“Yes that’s a no or yes as in lets go have some fun?”

“ _Sombra_.”

“Oh fine,” Sombra said, stepping back. She cast her gaze around the library. “What’s got you so horny for some old books anyways?”

“I happen to appreciate the concept. Each book is a world unto itself. Unread, it may have never existed. Ruined, and it never will again.” Widow set one of the rare, mold-free tomes onto the keep pile.

“Wow. Didn’t expect a real answer.” Something had changed in Sombra’s voice, and Widowmaker got the feeling she was being stared at. _Why_ she could not imagine, so she simply continued to sort. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sombra lift a book off the shelf. “So, uh, is this one of the ones we should keep?”    

Widow was surprised, but looked over the leather-bound novel held out to her anyway. Its corners had been turned down, but other than that it looked to have no significant damage. She nodded. “Yes, put it over there.”

Sombra did. She picked up another one, and judged it by Widow’s example. Slowly, the two of them made their way through the stacks lining the library walls, purging in silence.

* * *

“What the _fuck_ are you doing up there?”

Widowmaker stood in the clumsily decorated hall, having changed out of her paint clothes in to something that didn’t get dusted rose everywhere whenever she bumped into something. Instead she wore a clean purple robe, stitched elegantly with small floral patterns, perfect for a evening of relaxation. Relaxation that did not involve having to deal with annoying little women clinging to her ceiling.

Instead of Sombra, it was Reaper who responded to Widow’s question. He was sitting below her, struggling to open a Pepsi with his claws. “You said you wanted help dusting, so I told her to clean the chandeliers.”

Which, Sombra was doing an excellent job of. She balanced on one foot while whacking all the hard to reach places with a feather duster.

“Okay but… _how_?” Widowmaker continued to look up at the ceiling.

“Translocater,” Sombra called down. “Duh. Try to keep up _amiga_.”

“You used one of your translocaters to _dust_??” She threw her hands up in the air, and spun on Reaper. “If we’re really going waste Talon resources on this, you could have just teleported up there.”

“Me? Don’t be ridiculous Widow,” Reaper said, managing to grab the little tab and yank. “I might have hurt myself.”

Widow sighed.

“Besides,” Sombra yelled, “I needed these to get in anyway. Might as well use them.”

Widow sighed, but since Sombra didn’t look like she’d be doing real damage to the house, she let it go. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask. How _did_ you two get in here? I made sure that all the locks were bolt action, no digital openings to speak of.”

Sombra leaned over the chandelier and grinned. “Gabe over there turned in to smoke and went through the lock. Creepy, right?”

“Indeed.” Widow looked at Reaper. “Being incorporeal sure seems like a lot of fun.”

“Actually it sucks dick,” he said, then shouted up at Sombra, “now that your done, get down from there! We happen to have a mission on Monday that won’t work if you break your neck.”

Sombra was now hanging from the chandelier by just her feet. “Yeah yeah. You worry to mu- whoa!” With that, Sombra slipped, and fell all the way to land on Reaper with a loud CRASH.

Widow shook her head, and went to go find something to drink.

* * *

Every minute was a new opportunity to be flummoxed over her team’s continued existence. Seriously, how had they lived this long when they continued to do things like _this_?

“ _What_ are you wearing. _chérie?”_ Widow asked with dissapointment as Sombra appeared in the courtyard wearing a full set of scuba gear.

“And where did you get it?” Reaper asked. The two of them had been standing near the water drinking wine, Reaper’s mask pushed up just enough that he could get the straw in. “You sure as hell didn’t have it when we broke in.”

“Went back to base.” When Widow raised her eyebrows she just said, “what? You think I don’t have at least one translocater stashed pretty much everywhere? Just had to pop there and back again.”

Widowmaker shook her head. She hoped Sombra didn’t have too many of them in the château; she didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a muffled “ _BEEN HERE ALL ALONG_ ” coming from inside her closet.

Sombra pushed past the two of them with a _squelch squelch squelch_ of her flipper following along. “Besides, I wanted to get to try this new stuff out.”

“Then try it out somewhere warmer,” Reaper warned. “There’s no way a river in France in the middle of Fall is going to be good for your health.”

“Phhh,” Sombra said as she climbed over the edge of the balcony. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Widowmaker had gotten used to the hacker’s favorite saying. It made sense for someone who thrived on information and secrets to love a challenge. But over time she’d noticed that Sombra tended to used it on things that didn’t actually apply it in that way: like opening doors with her feet, or boxed cake mix. It wasn’t really about the challenge. It was just Sombra being Sombra.

And it was just Sombra being Sombra when she jumped off the balcony in to the icy river. Widowmaker and Reaper came to the edge to watch. Widow shook her head, but decided the two of them could at least enjoy the show.

If they were a thing instead of (well, whatever the hell they were) Reaper would sidle up beside her and slip an arm around her waist so they could watch Sombra flop around in the river like a fool. Instead, he stood he awkwardly away, just out of reach of where normal social conversation could be held without raising the voice.

They stayed like that for what felt to be a long time. Appreciating the strange woman that brought them together in the first place, but still not sure what their particular brand of “together” was.

Eventually, Sombra came back out to join them. Unsurprisingly, she was shaking in the cold, a wetsuit that didn’t cover her midriff not in the least useful. What _was_ surprising is that when she went to try and mooch some body heat off Reaper, he allowed it, even sitting down to let her burrow against his chest.

Widowmaker watched them, the edges of a smile forming, her first all weekend. “Looks like someone is very cold. I think we can find a solution to that, no?”

“What?” Sombra asked, then perked her head up in realization. “Really?”

“Well, I seem to recall that I have a California king that is not getting any use.”

Widow made her way to the stairs. Sombra didn’t take long to get the hint, and was off the bench in an instant to come _squelch squelch squelch_ after her. Reaper was still sitting there.

“Wait. Is ‘California king’ a dig at me?” he asked.

Sombra ran back down the stairs just to grab him by the arm and yank him toward the bedroom

* * *

Even when her chest stilled and the sweat cooled on her body, she felt it.

It was why she’d come. Sometimes—when Reaper’s body smoke poured in to her nostrils when he fucked her from behind, drowning out the scent of Sombra’s _Paul Mitchell_ shampoo—she felt like she was just catching the edges of it. She’d twist her hands in Sombra’s hair, and the hacker would just think she was telling her to go down harder, but it was more than that. She was grabbing, pulling, trying to hold on to the flicker of whatever that _it_ might be. It wasn’t every time, but it was often enough that she couldn’t think properly with the two of them around. Not when they were the source of all the pain she was trying to forget.

Who was she kidding? The pain she was trying _remember_. Because then it would hurt, and that’s what she felt she deserved.

So, she wouldn’t get the answers she wanted. Not now. But they were here now and in its own way…that was also a good thing. Perhaps she could sneak away again, more successfully next time. Or, maybe she could even convince her partners that this house wasn’t one checklist on her wayward path of self-destruction. Maybe then she could come back and think.

But for now, Sombra’s heel digging in to her stomach and Reaper’s un-masked lips at her shoulder weren’t so bad.

Almost…nice.


End file.
